


Eurus's Game

by LatteWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 11:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LatteWolf/pseuds/LatteWolf
Summary: Follows the S3 finale during the Molly Hooper puzzle, but slightly altered.Basically, Eurus could obviously tell about Sherlock's feelings for John and decided to have a little fun with it. Because Eurus, y'know?





	Eurus's Game

 

 

There's been a deep, sense of impending doom residing in Sherlock's chest throughout this endeavor. He knows there's only so much she can do to break his spirit. He knows there no way she could know, but a part of him is dreading what could happen if she did.

They enter a room; more like tiptoe through, that sense of urgency driving the three of them with or without the teasing of the dearly departed Moriarty. Tick. Tock.

Sherlock is hesitant, gun threatening to tremble in his hands. He sees it immediately, the coffin.

The minute on the phone doesn't last long; he wishes he could speak faster, calmer.

Mycroft sickens him.

Give her hope. Despicable.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. Coffin. Problem, someone is about to die. It will be, as I understand it, a tragedy. So many days not lived. So many words unsaid. Etcetera, etcetera. Etcetera, etcetera.”

Sherlock looks to the coffin, a pit in his stomach.

“Yes, yes, yes. And this, I presume, will be their coffin.”

“Whose coffin, Sherlock? Please,” her voice is almost taunting, “start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment.”

5'4", woman, inexpensive, unmarried, distant; words are firing in his brain spilling out of his mouth. Of course, Mycroft chooses to be an arse. An obnoxiously intelligent arse.

“Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid.”

That's always been the difference between them. Funny, even in a life or death (more death or death, though, really) situation everyone still acts so predictably.

Mycroft holds it up as Sherlock and John walk up to inspect the label.

“Only it isn't a name.”

Sherlock reads it, but the word doesn't quite register. He internally denies what he knows it's implying. It could only mean one thing.

“So, it's for somebody who needs to be confessed to? Or who needs to confess.”

Sherlock keeps blinking and swallowing. Why does he keep blinking and swallowing?

“Obviously the latter. It's for someone Sherlock needs to confess to,” Mycroft says, almost spits out.

A heavy weight is starting to rise off his lungs. Eurus has it wrong. This should be easy, then. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine. Okay.

“This is all about you. Everything here is. So who do you need to confess to? I'm assuming there's any number of possibilities.”

“Me? I mean— you know—”

Sherlock desperately hopes he can pull through this. He only has to be careful. Not let anything slip.

“Don't be ridiculous; look at the coffin. Unmarried, practical about death. Alone,” Sherlock says.

“Molly.”

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock adds. He tries his best to sound caught, taken aback. Everything will work. This will be fine. Fine.

“She's perfectly safe for the moment. Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes unless I hear the release code from your lips. It doesn't have to be word for word. I encourage you to get creative. I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Say it.”

“Say what?” John asks.

“Obvious Sherly,” Eurus chimes.

“What is it? What do you have to confess?”

Sherlock concentrates. Sincere eyes. Heartbroken eyes. It's not that hard, looking at John. John processes it for a moment; then a skewed look takes over his face.

“No.”

“Yes.”

A slight waver here, a slight tug of his lips there. It'll come together perfectly. Just perfectly.

Eurus's voice echoes in again.

“Oh, one important restriction. You're not allowed to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger. You may not, at any point, suggest there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?”

There's the noise of his phone dialing. He can see Molly on the screen, standing in her kitchen. 2:59. It begins.

Just put on a show.

Just convince them.

Moriarty's ticking and ticking is playing in the background. Molly doesn't pick up.

“W—what's she doing?”

“She's making tea,” Mycroft says.

“Yes, but why isn't she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone.”

“Yes, but it's me calling.”

Molly continues to ignore it, staring at the phone warily. Her answering message plays. She tells a joke, a bad one, and laughs awkwardly.

“Okay, okay. Just one more time,” Eurus says, in a sing-songy way.

2:13. She dials again.

“Come on Molly, pick up,” John mutters under his breath, “Just bloody pick up.”

She picks up the phone, her eyes weary.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Molly sounds tired, so so tired.

Sherlock almost feels bad.

“Is this urgent, because I'm not having a good day,” she says. It's almost breathless.

“Molly I just… I needed to get something very important off my chest, and you can't respond until I finish.”

“Oh god, is this one of your stupid games?”

“It's not a game I just… I need you to hear me out. And listen. Really listen. This is something you need to know.”

“Well, why don't you tell John Watson? I'm sure he'd be just as adequate for whatever this is.”

“It's not about John Watson. It's about you.”

“Well, quickly then,” Molly says. She waits for him to answer, breathing a little fast, “Sherlock… What is it? What do you want?”

Eurus plays Moriarty's voice again.

The heinous ticking.

The wretched tocking.

“I love you, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock says. He's probably overdoing the eye-watering and shaky breathing, but he's most likely in the clear.

Molly's expression drains, even more than it already was. He's never seen her so pale, so distraught. No, that's not distress. That's pain.

“Molly?”

“I've muted you temporarily,” Eurus says.

“I've done what you asked. I've confessed. Why is the timer still going off?”

Eurus clucks her tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, dear Sherlock. She doesn't believe you,” she says mockingly with her lip quivering. Her voice stiffens, “Sell it.”

He sighs, deep and long. Ham it up. Make it sappy. Sell it.

“Molly, can you hear me?”

“Stop making fun of me, please. I don't know if-if you enjoy when I'm in pain, but it hurts me. It really does.”

“No, Molly I'm not making fun of you. I mean it. I love you,” he thinks a bit, “I know I'm not the kind of person that falls in love. I know I- I definitely never believed that of myself. Neither did anyone I know, probably. When I first met you, I thought you were just ordinary, like everybody else. I don't know when that changed, but when it did, I denied it. That ordinariness became value in my eyes. Something useful. Something I could never have.”

Molly's eyes are wet. Her shoulders have relaxed, and she's leaning against the counter gently. Sherlock's exaggerated expressions have softened to more heartfelt, sincere ones. He doesn't notice the timer stopping as he continues. Neither do Mycroft and John.

“We've had our falling outs so many times, but you have this remarkable ability that I can't wrap my head around. Without fail, you've always forgiven me. Every time I let you down or took your help without so much as a thank you, you still did everything you could to help me. You are one of the few people who willingly chose to be in my life. I will never, for the rest of my days understand that. I've sat through every single partner that's come into and out of your life without so much as a comment, and I know that your relationship with me has affected your own. I'll never be able to say in words how sorry I am. I don't believe in love, but I believe in whatever this feeling is that swallows me whole every time I hear your name, your voice. That's real. Realer than anything else in the world.”

There's a pause. Sherlock realizes that he was staring off into the wall rather than the screen and that the connection was severed minutes ago. Mycroft and John still say nothing.

The echoing of Eurus's hand clapping robotically fills the overhead speakers.

“Congratulations, you've just confessed. Well, I suppose the whole point of a confession is that you're saying something that isn't already known, though, isn't it? I imagine everyone's known for a long time. Except for you two utter knob-heads.”

Of course, sure, the rest of the puzzles were all dangerous and insane and were probably the craziest scenarios of everyone present’s lives. But for Sherlock? The rest of the day was a blur. It should have been the highlight of his career, saving his best friend, his brother, his sister. After the spell of the night was broken, though, he was just an idiot who had confessed to being in love with John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> Might add smth later, depends on whether or not I feel like watching S3 again and crying vigorously.


End file.
